Malignant Minxes

*For those who once called themselves my sisters*

In their prettiest aesthetic vials

They sat and tête-à-tête’d.

Deriving pleasure from lost trials

Of others whose wounds they spread.

With their backs arched

And covered heads held high,

Knowing they’re beautifully cultured

Their purebred senses spy.

Aching to hear the next cry,

So they can lend their pretend hand

And aid with their perplexed “why”

For their entertainment, not to understand

Shrieking when it’s painfully comical,

Preaching silence when it’s morally topical,

Yet impersonating embodiment of the noble.

LIES! LIES! LIES! Scream – I shall!

If beauty is in this

In the face of humanity I hiss,

Far away from those “Perfect little Miss”

In my ugliness I am bliss’d.

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